


Honeystained

by BetweenBorealis



Category: Ghost Quartet - Malloy
Genre: Alcohol, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25486171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenBorealis/pseuds/BetweenBorealis
Summary: A little thing about Soldier, Rose and reincarnation. I've never used ao3 before, so sorry if the formatting is wack. I'd appreciate feedback!
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

“I am a soldier; I don’t believe in anything,” she said.

“Doesn’t that get boring?” Rose asked, her fingertips tracing the rim of her glass, which was now liberated from the weight of its whiskey.

“Ah, I’m not bored. I’m waiting for something,” she chuckled, “it’s just a matter of time.”

“What is it?”

Tenderly wincing, the soldier’s eyes glazed over the sharpened peak of Rose’s nose and fell to the base of the barstool. Like a barrel jettisoned into clasping waves, it bobbed with Rose’s swaying ankles. Underneath, the dark wooden floors lived in memories of moonshine.

“Try again.” Rose’s face tightened. She swept aside the curtains of her blurred mind and allowed herself to think.

“When is it coming?”

The soldier’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“I reckon I’ve got the rest of the night.”

“So I do, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They wander out of the bar, talking along the dark streets.

“How can you look up, into the sky, into everything and believe in nothing? Aliens, ghosts, God! There’s more out there than us – and it’s all us!” As the cold mist draped around her mouth, Rose’s hands, safely wrapped in the Soldier’s, expanded, gesticulating with fervour.

“You think I’m an alien?”

“No, it’s just – all life is like a waterfall. It begins and falls, over cliffs and in love, it changes shape and screams and spreads and settles and eventually, it is given back and reborn. That’s where baptisms come from. It doesn’t matter whether it was a wave, a river, a leak or a droplet, it’s still life, just in a different way. My camera, my old camera, it was Scheherazade, the storyteller in One Thousand and One Nights. Did you ever read it? When Scheherazade died, she needed to tell more stories, not because of the King and his threats, but because that’s who she was. First, her blood became ink; it smelt of pomegranates. I loved her in cursive. Then she was my mum, she told me lots of bedtime stories, you know. Told – not read. These stories were her own, nobody knew them but us. And when my mum died, she became my camera. Polaroids were her favourite, they felt like stories through stained glass. I miss that camera. I shattered it – or – or – I will shatter it. I should look where I’m going, but, god, the stars are so beautiful. Soldier, lightyears always confused me. It’s so strange to know that the stars died so long ago, but also comforting, I think. They’re just little ghosts. Look - do you see those two, the bright ones above the lamplight? They look like rips in the sky. I think they’re staring back. They could be us. Ancient, burning up, souls leaking out to be reborn.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. I guess we’re meeting again.”


End file.
